It's not the werewolves themselves that he hates; it's the fact that all but three days of a month they are completely and utterly human. Human as Dean, human as Dad, human as the pretty girl with braces in his fourth third grade class, the one in Tulsa.

Sam had nightmares for the better part of five years after killing her. He was eight and she had just turned nine. It was his first kill and he cried for three days after watching the hairy, slobbering wolf that had it jaws clamped down on his brother shift and slide into Cynthia. Nice, pretty Cynthia who smiled at him and didn't make fun of him and once had long brown hair and an intact skull.

Sam remembers Dean holding him in the car on the way back to the room. He also remembers falling asleep on his father's lap, still crying.

One time, Dean got attacked by a werewolf because they always go straight for him and Sam thought he was dead. He vividly remembers seeing it swipe its huge paw across his brother's stomach and watching the blood just fall out onto the basketball court followed by shredded muscle and what looked dangerously like intestine.

Sam was fourteen. He emptied his entire magazine in the thing's head and chest. Eleven silver bullets, three of which were shot into the bastard even after he was already dead and human again.

When Sam thinks of terror, he thinks of his arm shoved in his brother's stomach, stuttery, shallow breaths, Dean's bloody mouth and his glassy eyed stare at nothing.

To this day Sam doesn't know what sickened him more, Dean's gaping abdominal wound or the sickening satisfaction he felt pumping the werewolf/man full of deadly silver.

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